"Don't murmur; whatever you do, don't murmur; we can't tell what a day may bring forth. Look at me, what I have to put up with—Henry all crippled up and not able to earn salt for his bread. No, don't murmur, whatever you do."
"I ain't a-murmuring," said Mrs. Wilson, somewhat aggrieved. "I'm sure it ain't Homer; it's his soul I'm thinking on. Might's well be took off in a fiery chariot as killed the way he was."
"Oh, it's discouragin', I'm bound to say it is," condescended Mrs. Deans. "Enough to take the ambition out of one altogether. I suppose you haven't heard about old Mr. Carroll, have you?"
"Why, no," said Mrs. Wilson, abruptly suspending the task of sniffling into her handkerchief under pretence of weeping. "Why, no; you don't tell me he's sick?"
"Yes, it seems he was taken last night with spasms, and they say he might have died and no one been the wiser; but one of that Dedham tribe he was always feeding up came over to beg something, and there he laid on the floor."
"Well, for the land's sake!" ejaculated Mrs. Wilson.
"Yes, I'm going over after dinner. I sent Myron Holder over to do what's needed this morning. They say the only words the old man's spoke sence he was took was to tell them to send to town for a doctor."
Here Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Deans parted, each joining different groups and spreading the news of Mr. Carroll's seizure.
The women resolved to go and see the ins and outs of his house for themselves—sickness is such an admirable excuse for impertinent curiosity to gratify itself.
The men speculated as to what would become of his property. There had been a story at the time he bought the property, some hint of family trouble, some whisper that he had "money back of him"—a hazy tale that he had come to hide from some sorrow that pursued him. But all conjecture was so vague that, instead of giving birth to any definite idea, it died away, only to be aroused when the village wondered at some act of generosity upon his part.